Undercover Engagement by Samanthe Beck

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Hi, Dad.”

Eden hit the speaker button on her phone to go hands-free so she could finish buttoning her dress.

“You don’t call. You don’t write. What’s a father gotta do to get an update on Officer Brixton?”

Any other day, the exasperation in his voice would have made her smile—Commander Brixton wasn’t used to being back-burnered—but today it made her want to burst into tears.

“I’m sorry.” She picked up her concealer and tried to give a shit about her tear-ravaged face. Looks were important to her cover persona. “Things have gotten kind of…” She meant to say busy, but for some reason, another word came out. “Complicated.”

A beat of silence met that statement. “You sound upset. What’s wrong?”

Emotions she’d managed to tamp down through her report to Buchanan rose up now, making her throat tight. “I just… I can’t…” Her voice refused to steady.

“Is it your wrist, Eden?” Paternal concern came through loud and clear. “It’s not healing. You need surgery. Your mother put together a list of the best hand and wrist specialists the night you told us about the injury. Let me see if I can find it…”

“No. No, Daddy. Nothing like that.” She picked up the phone, went off speaker, and pressed it to her ear. “I’m healing just fine. The doctor’s happy.” She swallowed a sob and walked to the kitchen, staring out the window. Gray clouds slowly encroached on the late-morning sunshine. A storm approached.

“But you’re not happy, baby. I can hear it in your voice.”

Now she blinked fast. She would not show up at the meet site with red eyes and tear tracks down her face. Just no. She’d already behaved unprofessionally enough on her first assignment. “I’ll be all right.” To her horror, she sniffled.

“I know you will.” The confidence in her father’s voice firmed her own resolve. “You’re a Brixton, and you know what they say about us, right?”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “It takes a lot to knock a Brick over.”

“Damn right, it does. Nothing’s going to knock us over, especially when we support each other. How can I help?”

“I don’t know.” She rubbed her forehead and noticed the engagement ring on her finger. Habit. She’d showered, dressed, and put the brace on one hand and the ring on the other. “Like I said, it’s complicated, and I don’t really have the time to dig into all of it right now.”

“Okay. We’ll take the fifty-thousand-foot view. Is it work or personal?”

She winced at the question and rubbed her forehead again. “Both, I’m afraid.”

“Are they in conflict?”

“Oh, yeah. Very much so.” Dropping her hand, she stared out the window again. Where was Swain?

“Hmm. All right. That’s a tough one. Let me ask you this. To whom do you owe your primary duty?”

“I’m not sure I understand the question.”

“Well, I swore an oath to my country when I joined the Navy. I made vows to your mother when we married. Occasionally, I find myself in a situation where those two commitments don’t line up smoothly, and when I do, I ask myself, where is my primary obligation?”

That did uncomplicate things a bit, actually. She pulled the fake engagement ring off her finger and dropped it on the kitchen table. “The personal situation doesn’t involve any vows or promises.”

“So, there you go. You put your hand on a Bible and took an oath of duty when you joined the police department. In this situation, you owe your primary obligation to the job.”

“It’s still complicated,” she admitted, biting her lip. “They intersect.” A tear escaped her closed eyes and rolled down her cheek. “The joint op. There are some…issues to resolve. Personal issues.”

“Gotcha. Here’s what you do, Eden. You put those personal issues in a mental lockbox, turn the key, and tuck it away until the op is done. Compartmentalization 101. It can save your ass. You’re in a line of work where you have to focus, because if you don’t, things go south, and maybe somebody gets hurt. Really hurt, not just feelings hurt. You know what I’m saying?”

She sniffed, nodded, and wiped her eyes. “I do.”

“Block it all out for now and do your job. Stay safe. Stay strong. Make us proud. Afterward, take those personal issues out of the lockbox, and if they still need resolving, resolve them at that time.”

“Thanks, Dad.” She sniffed again. Last time, she promised herself, as she turned the key on her mental lockbox. “This helped.”

“I’m glad. Call after everything shakes out and let your old man know you’re okay, okay?”

“I will. I promise.” She glanced at the clock on the coffeemaker and calculated her time. “Everything good with you and mom?”

“We’re great. I’ll let you in on a little secret. We’re already extremely proud of you.”

She knew it. She did. But it still meant something to hear him say so. “I…thanks. I, um…I better…”

“You’re on the clock. You’ve got to go.”

“I do. But thanks, again. For everything.”

“Anytime, baby. Lockbox!”

“Lockbox,” she echoed and disconnected. The ring on the table twinkled in the waning sunlight, catching her eye, defying her intentions to put the whole mess aside for now. “Lockbox,” she repeated, and walked out the door.

…

Swain tapped his fingers on the steering wheel while he waited for the automatic gate leading to the secure area behind the Sheriff’s station to open. While gears turned, he thought about taking Eden out. Out for real. Not Rawley’s—somewhere far enough beyond the borders of Bluelick that their chance of running into Kenny or Dobie or anyone else from town topped out at improbable. Someplace she could wear something from her actual wardrobe. Somewhere they could ditch Eden Braxton and Michael Swain for a few hours and be themselves.

The maddeningly slow mechanism finally retracted far enough for him to steer the Bronco through to where they parked the duty vehicles. Using the secured parking took extra time to get in and out—time he didn’t have, because picking up the files from their whistleblower had taken way longer than he’d expected. He’d been in, he’d been out, then in again, and finally out. The woman was wound up and tired and kept second-guessing herself about the sufficiency of the evidence she’d spent all night gathering and organizing, then so relieved to have completed her part of the hand-off she’d actually gotten a little teary. And when he’d reassured her she’d done well, she’d hugged him and kissed his cheek.

So yeah, he was behind schedule, but parking out front risked someone who happened to be driving along the AA Highway, passing the low-slung modern structure with its green tin roof and thick white pillars, recognizing his ride. He preferred not to have to come up with a reason he’d be there. With the gym bag full of documents, he swung through the back entrance and down the fluorescent-lit hall lined with photographs of county officials. When he reached Malone’s office, the white-haired admin looked up from her desk at his approach, smiled a greeting, and waved him in.

Malone sat behind his streamlined L-shaped cherry desk, surrounded by tall, matching bookshelves full of leather-bound volumes interspersed with various awards and family photos. Leaning back in an ergonomic chair, carrying on a phone conversation, he gestured Swain to one of the two black, upholstered guest chairs opposite his desk and told someone on the other end of the phone to have the report to him by noon. He unzipped the bag and began stacking the files on the desk.

The chair squeaked as Malone leaned forward and hung up the phone. To Swain, he said, “Thanks for bringing this in.” He glanced at his watch, and his brows lifted. “Took a while.”

Swain shrugged. “Ms. Hill organized everything and kept detailed notes. She walked me through every bit of it, then worried she was so mentally fried she’d skipped something important and walked me through it all again. Our esteemed treasurer is definitely dirty, and the circle of bad actors is slowly taking shape. Whichever prosecutor draws this case is going to love her.”

Despite his urge to dump the files and be on his way, he did his job and completed the evidence report, then spent time giving his boss the highlights. Once Malone had a good overview, he instructed Swain to take everything to the custody officer and log it in, then report back to provide an update on his main assignment.

That wouldn’t take long, since they’d received no word regarding the chance of a meeting with Kenny’s and Dobie’s source. While he waited for the custody officer to log his evidence, he stared at his phone. No new texts. No messages. Nada. He could call Eden and see if she’d heard anything before he rejoined Malone, but if the guys had been in contact, she’d have reached out to him. The custody officer chose that moment to return with his receipt, so he put the notion aside.

His footsteps echoed in the empty hall as he made his way back to the sheriff’s office. Malone’s admin waved him in. Malone was on the phone again. With an extended finger, he gestured to shut the door. Swain complied and returned to the chair he’d vacated earlier.

Malone hit the speaker button on his phone and returned the headset to the cradle. To Swain, he said, “Buchanan’s on the line. He’s got some good news and some bad news regarding our op.”

His pulse scrambled. “News?”

“Dobie came through,” the disembodied voice of Chief Buchanan informed him. “The meet is set for two p.m. at Rawley’s Pub.”

Why hadn’t Eden called him? Called him first? Obviously, she’d spoken to Dobie and relayed the information to Buchanan. Why was he, her partner, finding out dead last?

“The bad news,” Malone interjected before he could ask, “is that the source—who still remains unnamed, though we can certain speculate based on the location—only wants to meet with Eden.”

That’s why.

And fuck no. “I’m not okay with that. We’re partners for a reason. You send her in solo, nobody’s got her back.”

“It’s not your call, Swain, and she’s not going in solo,” Buchanan calmly disagreed. “She’ll wear a camera and wire, and we’ll station ourselves close by. You’ll have her back. We all will. As soon as she gets what we need, we’ll make arrests. Wrap this up in one nice, tidy package with very little risk.”

“I don’t like it. There are troubling unknowns. I don’t understand what went down, or when, or why I was cut out of the meet.” Going with a late-breaking suspicion, he asked, “Is she on the line?”

“No,” Buchanan answered. “She’s getting ready. We’ll meet, collectively, at Mane on Main to wire her up and go over the plan.”

Frustration tightened his chest. He shook his head. “This is wrong. It’s off. Something’s off.”

“Their guy only wants to deal with Eden. Asking her to try to change his mind and insert you into the meet runs too high a risk of tanking the whole thing. Attempting to change the situation yourself by leaning on Dobie runs the same risk. So, deputy, Eden alone is how it’s going to happen.” By the tone of the voice on the other end of the line, Buchanan expected no further discussion. “You can get on board, or Malone can find you something else to do this afternoon.”

Swain sat, silent, as Malone concluded the call. Then his boss eyed him over steepled fingers. “Want to tell me what went south between you and Officer Brixton?”

“I don’t know. Sincerely, I have no fucking idea,” he added when Malone continued to stare.

“Something happened, son. You’re aced out of the meet, and she didn’t even do you the courtesy of a heads-up. You walked in here and got blindsided.”

No shit.

His silence didn’t bother Malone. “You want my advice? Put it away for now. Let’s get this thing done and done right. Then you can figure out why you’re on the outs.”

Good advice he wouldn’t be taking. But he let out a breath and stood. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

“I know you will.”

Swain waited until he was back in the Bronco to dial Eden. Unsurprisingly, it went to voicemail. “Call me,” he said, knowing damn well she wouldn’t, and disconnected. If she’d wanted to talk, she would have called him as soon as she’d spoken to Dobie. Instead, like Malone said, she’d cut him out and let him learn about it secondhand. He was hurt. He was mad. He wanted an explanation.

He’d worked so hard to give her reasons to trust him, he’d never stopped to question whether he should trust her.

Number one at the academy. Smart, competitive, and ambitious. She played you so smoothly you never saw it coming.

He really ought to admire her for conning the con man, but he was in too deep, and his feelings for her were too real.

Cooyon.

Thirty minutes later, he turned up the driveway to the cottage. He was still hurt, still mad, and still lacking an explanation. Sadly, he wasn’t going to get one here. Her car was gone. He slammed into the house, not bothering to turn on the lights.

Numb inside, he stalked into the kitchen. Smack-dab in the center of the round pine table sat the engagement ring he’d given her, sparkling in the muted light.

Not an explanation but definitely a clue. Apparently, Michael Swain and Eden Braxton were no longer engaged.